


Good Omens H/C, But It's Mostly Just C

by cowboyapologist



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Allergies, But Mostly Comfort, Caretaking, Domestic Fluff, Drabble Collection, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other, Sickfic, Sneezing, aziraphale is also needy, aziraphale is tired of this shit, beelzebub has no manners, crowley is needy, ineffable bureaucracy is the epitome of 'yeah we're fucking but we still hate each other', they're both disasters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-07-24 23:37:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20022898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cowboyapologist/pseuds/cowboyapologist
Summary: drabbles from hurt/comfort prompts on tumblr! will update tags as drabbles are posted





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> prompts: tissues, sniffles, cough drops, sore throat, warm blankets

“Are you feeling any better, dear?”

“Ndo,” Crowley groans, shivering under Aziraphale's sheets. (The bed hadn't existed two hours ago, but when a terribly feverish demon had showed up on his doorstep with a cough, Aziraphale saw to it that his flat was fitted with a bed big enough for Crowley to properly rest in.) “Huh…” he pulls a tissue out of the near empty box that rests on the pillow. He’s already gone through quite a few tonight. “Hahh’TSHhuh! Snff, ughhh, that hurtsss…” Aziraphale croons and refrains from blessing him, knowing it’ll do his demon more harm than good.

“I ran to the store,” he starts, and this makes Crowley lift his head. His face is flushed and his hair sticks up in every direction, but he manages an amused eyebrow raise.

“Snff… What’d you do that for?” he asks, then immediately breaks off into a fit of dry coughs. Aziraphale rubs his back, own chest aching in sympathy. When he’s done Crowley holds a hand to his throat gingerly, swallowing and wincing at the pain it brings him.

“Well, I can't very well miracle you _everything,_ ” he explains when Crowley catches his breath. “So I picked these up.” He holds out a small bag which Crowley looks over curiously. Medicated cough drops that claim to be strawberry cream flavored.

“S’like- snff!- like cad’dy,” Crowley says when he pops one into his mouth. As he sucks on it a cool sensation spreads across his throat, and his slitted pupils blow out a bit. “Oh…”

“Good, isn’t it? I know your throat is feeling quite sore, and— oh, Crowley, dear, you’re not supposed to have so many at once… alright. And that's the whole bag gone.” Crowley looks pleased as punch, still trying to speak around the large cluster of cough drops sitting on his forked tongue.

“Thadks, adgel,” he says earnestly, grinning when Aziraphale pressed an alarmed hand to his forehead.

“Hmph, well. Do try not to choke.” He pulls his hand away, starting to go to the small kitchen, but Crowley snatches his wrist. So much for sluggish from fever.

“Mm, ‘Ziraphale, d’you- snff- you think you could do me one last miracle?”

_Anything,_ Aziraphale thinks, Crowley staring up at him with such a bashful gaze. “I suppose,” he says instead, feigning weariness, “one more miracle couldn't hurt. But _just one.”_

“S’just, ah, snff… The blankets have gone a bit cold, see, and…” Aziraphale puts his hands on the comforter, warming them to a toasty degree under his palms. He can't fight back a smile as Crowley lets out a long, appreciative hiss, pulling the blankets tighter around himself.

“You’re the bessssssst,” he drawls, already sounding ten times as sleepy as before. Aziraphale pats his cheek lovingly.

“Get some rest, dear.”

  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompts: pet names/terms of endearment, allergies, nose kisses

“Hh- Hih, heh..! Hih’DTSHhu! GhhTSHHu! Oh…” Aziraphale sniffles and holds the soft cuff of his sleeve to his nose, not looking an iota more satisfied than he did before. The nervous flush to his cheeks at he and Crowley suddenly being caught in such a precarious situation, their usual roles flipped, had long given way to irritation. Crowley quickly became bored with teasing his angel after the initial excitement had faded and his cheeky comments went ignored. 

There is an awkward lapse in between every sneezing fit. The obvious thing to say is  _ bless you, _ but Crowley, who is a demon in case anyone needs reminding, is not about to say that. If being blessed makes him react so strongly, Somebody knows what it’d do to him to actually try and bless someone else. And he’s loath to adopt Aziraphale's new favorite habit of trying to find an equivalent phrase in every blessed language he can think of. So he holds his tongue, only hands his angel a tissue when he needs it, and occasionally gives his thigh a comforting rub.

“Aziraphale,” he calls, noticing his eyes have gone hazy as he scrubs insistently at his nose. “Angel,” he tries again, to no avail. For all that rubbing he’s doing to his poor nose, it doesn't seem to be doing much other than irritating it. In fact, now that Crowley thinks about it, his nose has only gotten worse since they’d gone back to the shop. They had to cut their date short, Aziraphale apologetically explaining that he thought he may be coming down with something. Naturally, Crowley had followed him home, even making him tea and ignoring Aziraphale’s comments about how sweet it was.

But there has been no fever, no cough, not even a sore throat. There's just been…

“Hhihh… oh dea-hihh-r… Hihh’DTSHhu! Ghh, hihh… IH’DTSshu! HIH’DTSCHhu!”

Over and over, muffled into his brand new sweater. He wipes at the mess with his sleeve, groaning as the motion makes his nose twitch again, and Crowley decides he’s seen enough. “Aziraphale, darling.” 

This  _ definitely  _ catches his angel’s attention, who knows Crowley likes to save that one for special occasions. He offers him a toothy grin before taking Aziraphale’s hand, kissing his knuckles and leaning in closer.

“Angel. I think you should take the sweater off.”

“Why? It's keeping me warm, you’re supposed to stay warm with a— Hh’TSSCHU! Snff, with a cold.”

“Yes, well… I don't think you have a cold, love.” He tugs the wool sweater up over Aziraphale's head, tossing it aside despite the squawk of protest (“For heaven’s sake, Crowley, you could at least fold it!” “Absolutely not.”) and pulling the angel close to his chest.

“There, beloved, isn’t that better?” He knows that  _ beloved _ is Aziraphale's favorite, but will never admit it for fear that Crowley will stop. He grins again as Aziraphale’s entire face goes bright pink. As if he could ever stop when it flusters his angel so.

Aziraphale gives an experimental sniff, then another, then makes a surprised little noise in the back of his throat. “It… It is.” He looks up at Crowley in awe. “How did you…?”

Crowley shrugs, then kisses the tip of Aziraphale's nose (and laughs when it makes him sneeze again). “S’just a bit of observation, really. You’re actually quite talkative when you’ve caught a chill, did you know that, dear? Fever sends you all babbly…” Aziraphale looks offended for a moment.

“I’m not  _ babbly, _ ” he insists.

“Well, you’ve been so quiet all night, that’s the point. Since you’re not  _ actually _ sick, let’s have a bit of red, shall we, my darling angel?”

And, well. Aziraphale can't possibly refuse when he asks like  _ that. _


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale gets an unexpected visit from his boss.

“Phone’s ringing,” Crowley croaks, directing yet another coughing fit into the blanket. Aziraphale has given up on telling him to please use the tissues.

“I know it is. I’m a bit preoccupied at the moment, taking care of a sick demon.”

“...Been ringing for quite a while, now. Sure you don’t need- Hhuh’TSHuh! Snff, need to take it?”

“Yes, I’m sure.” The ringing goes on for another full minute before Aziraphale whirls on his heel, snapping his fingers and silencing the phone with such a loud huff of frustration it makes Crowley snort. Satisfied, the angel goes back to fluffing Crowley’s pillows, before it starts to ring again.

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake!” he cries, storming over to the phone with his hands thrown in the air. Crowley follows him with fond eyes, grinning when he snatches up the phone and tries not to sound so irritated.

_ “Yes, _ hello, terribly sorry but I’m afraid we’re closed--”

“Aziraphale!” greets a familiar but entirely unwelcome voice. Though something about it does seem… Hm. Off.

“Gabriel?” Crowley raises an eyebrow, making a confused gesture in the air. ‘I don’t know,’ Aziraphale mouths, before speaking again. “Pardon me, but unless this is very  _ very _ important, I’m quite busy at the moment.”

“It is very very important!” Gabriel insists, but the last word comes out sounding more like “ibportadt.” He tries to continue, but instead Aziraphale gets an earful of wretched-sounding coughs on the other line.

“Goodness, are you alright?” Crowley gives an exaggerated eyeroll, miming the action of hanging up the phone.

“You’ve been on Earth for a while,” Gabriel trudges on instead of answering the question. “And you spend a lot of time around humans, so you know what they’re like. And,” he pauses. There’s a shuffling and what sounds like another cough, this time more distant. Maybe Gabriel has pulled the receiver away. “You know how to deal with human illnesses,” he continues. “Right?”

Aziraphale looks over at Crowley, who’s still watching him.

“I do,” he says cautiously. “Gabriel, I really don’t have the time--”

“Unfortunately you’ll have to make time! You can do that, can’t you? Make a space in your little schedule full of human things to help an old friend?” Old friend? Aziraphale wouldn’t say that. “Think of it as a w-work assignment, it’s uh…” He trails off suddenly, and Aziraphale is about to ask if he’s absolutely sure he’s alright when a loud sneeze interrupts his train of thought.

“Bless you,” he says automatically, and Crowley looks rather like he wants to throw a pillow at him.

“No need. Anyway, I’ll be right over and you can tell me in person how to get rid of this disgusting human ailment.”

“Actually, Gabriel, I really can't—”

“Oh and also,” Gabriel’s voice becomes more muffled as he attempts to fit an entire sentence into one syllable. “I’m-bringing-a-guest-alright-see-you-soon-goodbye.”

* * *

“HhUEHH’TSHIuh!”

Gabriel flinches and pulls a face. “That is so disgusting; cover your mouth!”

Lord Beelzebub, Prince of Hell, Lord of the Flies, sniffles pathetically and drags their nose along the entire length of their arm. “What does it matter,” they complain, “if we’re all sick already?”

“I’m not,” Aziraphale says very pointedly as he hands Crowley a mug of tea. Beelzebub and Gabriel both ignore him.

When Gabriel had shown up right behind him as soon as he’d hung up the phone, Aziraphale didn't expect to find him with a runny nose and swaying a bit on his feet. Aziraphale  _ definitely  _ didn't expect to see his hand closed around Lord Beelzebub’s wrist, who was in the midst of a violent and uncovered sneezing fit.

Crowley had fallen out of bed.

The living area of Aziraphale's flat, which is rarely if ever used, is usually cluttered but clean. The only two beings that ever occupy it are one angel and one demon (who occasionally is also a snake). At the moment his flat looks like a warzone. Crowley is still bundled in the bed— The blankets now resemble a nest which he retreats into whenever Beelzebub and Gabriel start to argue. Which has been approximately once every three minutes.

The couch’s current tenants are laying in a miserable lump, limbs tangling with what looks suspiciously like familiarity to Aziraphale (that is, of course, until they begin to bicker again and suddenly attempt to distance themselves as much as possible.) (Which isn't very much, considering that they’re on the couch together). Crumpled tissues are managing to spawn all over the floor, and Aziraphale is becoming extremely winded with the effort of miracling them all into the trash. At one point soup was made, and Crowley inhaled it with a vigor Aziraphale thinks he ought to be proud of, while Gabriel refused to even touch it. Aziraphale caught Beelzebub and stopped them before they could pour their serving into an unsuspecting archangel’s lap.

“It’s still disgusting!” Gabriel insists in the present, squirming towards the other side of the couch. Beelzebub scowls and shoves their foot into his chest, cackling with satisfaction as the motion sends him into a coughing fit. Their laughter quickly catches and turns into coughs that are just as bad, and suddenly they’re both leaning over opposite sides of the couch trying to catch their breath. Aziraphale feels his left eyelid begin to twitch.

“I’m afraid I have to agree with Gabriel,” Aziraphale says, reluctantly offering them both the tray where two mugs of perfectly hot ginger tea are sitting obediently. His patience is not so much wearing thin as it is reduced to a thread that’s hanging onto him for dear life. “Please cover your mouth.”

“Why aren't we better already?” Beelzebub demands. 

“Because these things take time to heal,” Aziraphale answers shortly. For the fourth time. There’s a very subtle change in his tone of voice that most people would never think twice about. His pitch has dropped fractionally, a cool steadiness spreading over his tone. Crowley is not most people, and he knows Aziraphale is losing his temper. His flushed face pokes out of his blanket nest to watch his angel more closely.

“How  _ much _ time?” Gabriel whines. “I can’t go back to Heaven like this, and I can't be stuck with you all.”

“You could just go away,” Aziraphale says evenly.

“Shoddy exzzzcuse of an angel,” Beelzebub mumbles as they scrub a fist against their nose. Crowley’s eyes widen as he sees Aziraphale's fingers curl around the tray’s handles minutely. Oh no. He grins.

“I’m sorry?”

“Isn't healing part of your job description?” they soldier on, ignoring the way Aziraphale's polite smile has frozen on his face. “ _ Gabriel  _ said we’d be out of here in seconds, but it looks like you can't even do a meazzzly healing miracle.”

Aziraphale turns to Beelzebub slowly. Very, very slowly.

“I,” he says calmly, “have spent the last two days on my feet playing caretaker. I have no problem taking care of Crowley's ailments, Lord knows he succumbs to them easily, but the both of you have dropped in entirely uninvited, unwanted, and have been downright  _ wretched _ company, yet you have the a-absolute nerve to— t-to—” His eyes glaze over, gaze fixed on an indeterminate point in the distance. “Th-the nerve… t-hhhuh…”

“Look what you did!” Gabriel growls, shoving Beelzebub. “You broke the angel!”

Beelzebub squints, leaning in to peer closer at Aziraphale. “He doesn't look broken. Actually, he looks like he's going to—”

“H-HEHH’TSHIEW! Heh’DTSHHiew! Heh’KISCHHiew! Snfff,  _ ughhh…” _

Aziraphale blinks, dazed for a moment in the aftermath before he makes two realizations. The first is that Beelzebub is staring at him with such shock they haven't even bothered to try and wipe their newly sprayed face. The second is that Crowley is laughing as loud as his sore throat will allow him to.

“Oh,” Aziraphale says with a liquid sniffle. “Oh dear.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: “I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me… I was fine this morning.”

“Cup of tea?”

“Please.” Aziraphale raises an eyebrow at Crowley's flippant use of the p-word before handing him his awfully sweet cup of tea. Crowley barely takes a sip before pulling a face.

“What?”

“Is there any lemon in this?”

“N...no? It's exactly the way you always take your tea, dear boy.”

“Ngh.” Crowley waves his hand with a thick sniffle. Where there had been a cup of about 60% cream, 35% sugar and 5% tea in his hand is now a tall mug of steaming ginseng loaded with honey and lemon.

“You know, you could have just asked me to make it differently.” Aziraphale pouts. “Or made it yourself to begin with rather than let me go through all that trouble for nothing.”

“You were making tea already,” Crowley snaps instead of rising to the bait. He takes a long, slow sip before rubbing at his forehead with another damp sniffle.

“Crowley, I…” Aziraphale watches Crowley’s tongue flit out irritably as he makes a low hissing sound in the back of his throat. Usually not a very good sign. “What’s troubling you?”

“Nothing. It’s fine.” As if his body means to spite him, Crowley starts to cough. Quietly, at first, then with alarming force that has him setting down the mug and tucking his face into the crook of his elbow.

Aziraphale is quick to sit beside him, a soothing hand on his demon’s back as the coughs tear through him.

“You poor thing,” he fusses while Crowley catches his breath. “If you didn't feel well, we could have stayed home instead of being out all day.”

Crowley doesn't lift his head, bracing his forehead against his arm instead. “I don't know what the hell’s wrong with me,” he croaks, and Aziraphale winces with how wretched he suddenly sounds. “I was fine this morning.”

“It must have been festering all this time, then.” Crowley coughs again, and Aziraphale can feel how they rattle in his chest. “I’m concerned with how quickly this is coming on…”

Crowley's silence tells Aziraphale that he’s concerned too. At once, the bathroom cabinet becomes adequately stocked with Vaporub and extra strength cough medicine. The latter may not do very much for ethereal beings, but he knows the former will do wonders.

“Come, dear, let’s get you into bed.”


End file.
